Past and Present
by deep six
Summary: NCIS Special Agent Timothy McGee is shattered, when spectres from his past come back to haunt him. A colleague in the form of Tony DiNozzo is unexpectedly there to help pick up the pieces, if only he can overcome demons of his own. Spoilers pre-season 5.


A/N: So, I'm new to this site in terms of writing; I've been lurking here for several years consuming stories like a madwoman, and have finally gotten round to posting some of my work. This is my first chaptered NCIS fic, and it's Tony/Tim - which I feel is much more canon than and generally swamped by the sheer about of Tony/Gibbs I've found on the web - not that there's anything wrong with a bit of DiGibbs, but this happens to be my favourite pairing.

This chapter's probably going to be shorter than the subsequent ones. A sort of introduction, if you will.

Enjoy, and feedback would be much appreciated. :)

* * *

**Chapter One - Pejoration  
**

The norm at NCIS was that whenever the boss barked a rough "grab your gear", it sparked a bustle of noise, energy and excitement in the team. It was a new logic puzzle that tested their skills, a new chance to impress with theories and explanations and cracked codes. It used to seem a bit warped to Tim how the tragedy of death in the corps got everybody's blood pumping in anticipation, but after a few years at NCIS it was second nature to him now. Part of the job.

Scrambling into the van, Tim reflects on this and can't come to a decision upon whether or not this disturbs him, or even if it should disturb him. Tony's got that huge smile on his face again to replace the scowl that came with rewriting reports for Gibbs, ink all over his hands from the numerous scribbles that signified misspellings and other mistakes. Ziva is singing to herself under her breath; this in itself makes Tim smile, for it's such an out of character thing for her to do and he muses on the fact that she doesn't really have a bad voice, not at all. Her lips flutter around a tune he doesn't know and, if he had to describe the sound, he'd probably say it was like melting butter with a kick of exotic cinnamon, especially in the low notes. Tony doesn't seem to notice her humming, which mystifies Tim as Tony normally likes to seize any quirks, traits or personal information of his co-workers with those sharp, white teeth, and shake it about like a rabid hound. Tim decides to let sleeping dogs lie, as it were, and refrains from asking Ziva if she'd ever considered singing as a side-job.

He doesn't really keep track of the time it takes them to get to Bethesda in the rush-hour traffic. It's late, he's had a long day of writing reports and sorting through cold case files and all he can hear is the drumming of the rain on the roof and Tony's constant chit-chat in his ear. Although this dead wife of a Lieutenant may mean he doesn't have to spend his Friday doing endless hours of paperwork, his mind wanders longingly to the affectionate German Shepherd curled up on his bed and the pudding he has defrosting on the counter – that is, if Jethro hasn't already gotten his chops into it yet – and he knows it will be hours before he can relax and conk out in the luxury of his apartment.

"Yknow, I used to live on this base when I was a kid," Tim yawns. He's not exactly sure why he's sharing – the impulsive need to make small talk, he supposes, as Tony's musing over something in his head and the van is consequently quiet. Though he can't see much from the torrential rain, he squints out of the window and attempts to recognise a house or two, but with no luck. He's not sure he'd recognise his old house if he saw it; he has an old photograph of his six-year-old self with his then-baby sister, Sarah, sat out in the garden in front of the house, but he's sure it would have changed since then. Besides, he's not entirely sure he wants to see his old house again. He doesn't share this with the team.

"Ah, a glance into McGee's past, huh?" Tony says, leaning up against Tim to try and follow his line of sight. "Nice looking houses, here – nothing as grandeur as what I was used to as a kid, of course, the DiNozzos being some of the richest people for miles around –"

"I did not know your parents were Navy, McGee," Ziva interjected, cutting off Tony's hyperbole mid-sentence. "Was it your mother or your father?"

"My dad," Tim replies. "He was a naval officer."

Lack of elaboration is justified when the van rolls to a stop, and Tim just knows there's a collective inward groan at the prospect of setting foot in the icy December rain, for any amount of time. Gibbs gives them an exasperated sigh and takes the lead, and everyone else swiftly follows as they know a soaking is nothing to their boss' wrath. Tim rushes round the back with Tony to get the necessary gear as Ziva follows Gibbs to the porch, the two trying to shelter themselves desperately from the harsh conditions. Tim slams the back van doors with a clang and looks up towards the house they're parked outside – and he just has to double take, as this – this can't be happening, surely? Taking a couple of steps forward, he peers at the place where the house number should be screwed to the door, but sees nothing.

"What number house is this?" he yells to Tony over the rain, pulling his cap tighter over his head.

"Twenty-seven!" Tony yells back before running after Ziva, feet squelching in the mud and leaving Tim and his pounding heart stood outside the house he used to live in.

It's strange, Tim thinks, gazing at the outside of a house his dusty old photo albums only really told him about. He hadn't really expected it to stay exactly the same these twenty-odd years, but he feels a little weird looking at it now. The surface of the wall is bumpy, with large, limestone bricks under a blanket of thick, white paint which his memory tells him should be yellow. There are still flowerpots on the black windowsills, which used to be green, and the garden, the grass thicker and more luscious than it once was, remains bordered by shrubs - but as far as he can tell they aren't inkberry ones anymore. He steps through the garden gate, taking a deep breath, and hopes the inside has changed dramatically, too.

It's dark in the house, and from snippets of conversation he picks up he assumes the base has a power cut. In the hall, Ziva stands with her back to him in the doorway to what he remembers as the kitchen, the only room he ever really saw clearly in his mind. She steps back to let him pass, brandishing a flashlight, and the first little glance into the room makes him feel as though his blood is congealing into thick clumps, making his heart work twice as fast to pump it round to his brain. It's too much; the gore, the scent of the house, the churning motion in his gut that melts together memories of his childhood and the thick, weighting thoughts of death. Murder. He closes his eyes as flashing images whirl against his pupils, a feeling of total despair and confusion taking over as he refuses to look at the body on the floor. _I can't do this._"McGee! What the hell is the matter with you?"

Everyone's staring at him. Gibbs looks pissed, Ziva surprised, and Tony unreadable.

"Sorry – sorry, boss," he stutters. He can't remember the last time he stuttered. "It's just – when I said I used to live on the base, this – this was my old house. It's a bit, uh, disorientating, walking in for the first time in years and seeing a – a body, on the floor…"

He trails off, the skin beneath his collar sweating and itchy. Gibbs raises his eyebrows, sighing.

"Can you manage to work the scene?" he asks, his tone a little warmer. Tim nods, setting the camera kit down on the table and focusing on unzipping the case and removing the lens cap. Three torches shine down on to the floor, the centrepiece, the reason they're all there, and Tim can just about see his blurred reflection in the burgundy pool on the floor. He gulps.

They all fall into their roles as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. Tim begins to take photographs, relying on the agent in him not to get distracted by the changes to his old home and instead trying to capture accurately the angle at which the victim, Mrs Peterson, has fallen onto the mahogany flooring. Gibbs strolls around the open plan living area, peering at décor, furniture and droplets of blood with a passive expression on his lined features. Ziva circles the body like a bird of prey, eyes narrowed and taking in every detail, and Tim can tell the cogs in her brain are whirring, trying to decipher how Mrs Peterson met her maker. Tony takes measurements of the scene, whipping out a sketchpad and beginning a rough outline of the body as he talks through it to himself.

"Female – obviously," he muttered, to begin his commentary. "Face down, twisted ankle – not surprised, in those heels…"

Tim catches snippets of other words as he too kneels on the harsh floor, kneecaps crashing painfully on the wood. _Blonde. Five-four. Designer jacket. 36D? _The last one is mumbled curiously for Tony's own ears, but Ziva hears it too and slaps him on the back of the head. Scowling, he continues, and until he adds _been bleeding from a heavy blow on the side of the head, _Tim thinks it sounds like he's describing a date he'd had the previous night.

He shakes off the clinical words, and focuses on taking photographs.

Crumpled rug. Snap. Smashed lamp. Snap. Blood on the corner of the coffee table. Snap. Everything takes longer because they're in the dark; Ziva has to point things out to him that he'd have missed in the gloom, as it's too difficult to juggle both a flashlight and a camera that probably cost a month of his salary. He keeps his mind working by building up a possible scenario; she was moving away from the assailant, tripped over the rug in her stilettos and fell to the floor, smashing the lamp in the process? But then, why was the lamp unplugged? Could it have been yanked out of the socket when it was snatched suddenly – used as a defensive weapon or an offensive one? There is no blood on the shattered pot – maybe it was cleaned up, then dropped in the haste to escape?

"McGee, look here," Ziva points out, startling him. "There is a stab wound on her left side, just under her armpit. Looks messy, like the knife was twisted around before release.

"Well, we'll leave Duck to determine that, Ziva," Gibbs says as the sound of another vehicle rolling up reaches Tim's ears. Sure enough, within ten seconds or so Ducky and Palmer have joined them, sopping wet and looking very displeased about the fact.

"Evening, Jethro," Ducky greets Gibbs, discarding his rain-soaked hat on the table and looking down at the scene at Tim's feet. "My, oh my, who do we have we here?"

"Name's Natasha Peterson," Tim mumbles, getting to his feet and removing himself from the immediate area. "Married to a Lieutenant James Peterson, who's currently deployed in Afghanistan. He's due to return next week… but I guess he has reason to come home early, now."

"Yes, and such an unpleasant reason it is, Timothy," the medical examiner clucks, paying particular attention to the blonde, wavy halo of hair that's clotted with the contents of her veins. "But not to worry, my dear Natasha. We'll find who did this to you."

Ducky rambles on as he examines the body, and bats Gibbs' request for a time of death away with a patient hand. Tim is glad to walk away from the kitchen as Gibbs and Ziva go to find the neighbours who discovered the body, and he ventures down the hall in search of Tony and the possibility of more forensic evidence. The lounge door is shut, and upon opening everything looks in order – nothing broken, disturbed. There's a large television in the far corner and French windows have been placed in the adjacent wall, something which makes the room feel lighter and more spacious than Tim's mind thought it would have been, even with the gloom outside. He sighs, shutting the door behind him, and hears a creak on the upper floor.

"Tony?" Tim calls, precariously placing a foot on the first step of the staircase. "Stop poking around, we've got to collect the evidence for Abby before Gibbs gets back."

"C'mon, Probie, don't you wanna look around the old place?" Tony grins, leaning over the banister and beckoning him up. Tim's sense of duty fights with his curiosity, and it doesn't take long for the devil on his shoulder to silence the angel. His breathing quickens as he travels up the staircase, following Tony's whistling down the dark corridor, and he stops outside a room at the end of the hall. He traces his fingers over the oak where a plaque used to be with his name on it, and gently pushes the door open.

"So whose room did this used to be, huh?" Tony asks, standing by a huge shelf creaking with the weight of hundreds of DVDs. Tim swears he can see Tony's pupils dilate with wonder and delight.

"It was mine, as a matter of fact," Tim replies, edging further into the room. It seems smaller than it used to be – obviously Tim fills more of it now – and the dark corners are less friendly, less familiar.

"Ah, so this is where Tiny Tim spent his days!" Tony exclaims, pouncing on the fact like he neglected to do with Ziva earlier. "I can see it now; a smaller, chubbier you sat on the carpet there, reading _Spiderman _comics – or were you a _Batman _kind of guy, huh? Is this where you kept that handsome set of collectible _Star Wars _trading cards I've seen in your apartment, Probie-Wan? Did you sit up here watching _Back to the Future _movies, drawing out the diagrams in order to create your very own flux capacitor?"

"Tony, I was six, okay?" Tim said exasperatedly. "That movie didn't come out for at least another two years after we moved. And to answer the question you're undoubtedly going to ask: no, I do not own a copy of _Back to the Future_. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen it, at least not all the way –"

"Woah, slow down, McGeek - you are joking me, right?" Tony says, in a very serious voice that almost makes Tim's lip wobble in amusement. "You – _you_ – have never seen one of the greatest geek movies in American history? C'mon, McGee – even Mrs Peterson owns a copy, and she's a chick!"

Tim sighs; he's not going to win this one. Tony wields the Petersons' battered copy of the movie in question in front of Tim's face, rapping him on the head with it. Tim retaliates by raising the camera up and snapping it in Tony's face, aiming to smoulder his retinas with the flash, and seemingly succeeding. Tony's scowl returns almost immediately and only then does Tim properly smile, forgetting where he is and why he's there. Getting one over on Tony is always a good feeling, and anticipating the retorting gestures or pranks is half the fun, when he's in the right mood.

Tony replaces the DVD and chases Tim out of the room, pushing him down the corridor and towards the staircase. "You do realise we have to collect all the evidence for Abby before Bossman gets back from his interviews? Stop messing around, _McKid_."

"Quit it, Tony," Tim says, rolling his eyes as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. Ducky is still having his conversation with Natasha Peterson, asking for answers from lips that will never speak back. As the agents cross the threshold of the kitchen, the lights flicker on, power cut over, and the deceased's skin looks even paler under the fluorescents. Purple, wilted skin lies under the eyes that stare at Tim as he walks closer, her cheek pressed to the carpet.

"Right, Mr. Palmer," Ducky announces, standing up. "Now that we have our time of death, I suppose this young lady can come home with us. Fetch the gurney, if you please."

"But - but Doctor…" Palmer hesitates, gesturing outside as a bolt of lightening illuminates the flooding street. "I… oh, very well..."

"C'mon, Probie, get a move on," Tony yawns, shoving a couple of evidence wallets into Tim's hands and startling him, tearing his eyes away from the body. "This evidence won't bag and tag itself, y'know – although, I wish it would. Man, I wish I was in bed right now, my back is killing me…"

Tim could make a crack about how Tony's getting old, pushing forty - to which Tony would vehemently claim that he's not a day over thirty-five even though Tim has seen his records - but he refrains. The lump in his throat, building up there by the odd angles of the limbs on the floor and the blood that's soaked into the rug, won't swallow down and Tim has to fight to make his handwriting on the evidence bags legible. His mind is working overdrive, and he knows that once the investigation begins tomorrow morning, he will not be able to hide himself anymore. It will be easier for the team to knock down walls in his façade; it's in their job description, after all.

He keeps his cap pulled low over his face, away from eyes and attention as Gibbs, Ziva and Palmer return, busying the scene again, and takes a deep breath whilst trying not to taste the scent that takes him back those twenty or so years.

When he's finally pushed out from the crime scene and into the rain, he raises his face to the open heavens and tries to wash it all away.


End file.
